


North Of Gravity (Head Up In The Stratosphere)

by geckoholic



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel 616
Genre: And Natasha Is Totally Helping, F/M, Fake Marriage, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Huddling For Warmth, IN SPACE!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-08
Updated: 2016-01-08
Packaged: 2018-05-12 15:46:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5671450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geckoholic/pseuds/geckoholic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Hawkeyes pretend to be married. In space. Because aliens, and also Natasha.</p>
            </blockquote>





	North Of Gravity (Head Up In The Stratosphere)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DoreyG](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoreyG/gifts).



> Based on your request for fake marriages becoming real and touching on a few more of your likes, you know, in passing. The result is... well. Maybe not the best thing I ever presented to the public, but it was fun, and it's done before reveals, so, here you go. 
> 
> Beta-read by andibeth82. Thank you!! ♥ All remaining mistakes are mine.
> 
> Title is from "The Best Thing" by Savage Garden.

Space isn't what Kate pictured. That's not news; she's been up here several times at this point, but it never ceases to amaze her. Or not amaze her, as it is. The space station they were sent to is a scrap heap, basically, full of rusty pipes, the metal of the corridor they're walking through mismatched in more than one place, hinting at hurried repairs. Kate has never been a sci-fi nut, she’s never spent much time imagining other worlds and their inhabitants, but if she had, it wouldn't have looked anything like this. A lot more Star Trek, much less mundane. 

Clint doesn't look very impressed either, though in his case it's probably just experience. He's been around the block more often than she has, if by _block_ one means faraway galaxies. Almost died out here, once or twice, she heard. Although there probably isn't any place in the known universe where Clint Barton _didn't_ almost die, and a few where he indeed did. 

They're trailing after a lizard-like alien with blue and red skin, who is wearing a plain gray jumper and a permanent frown. She's been introduced as Zaria and appointed their liaison, she's clearly less than thrilled about it, and she stops in front of a nondescript sliding door, opening it with a key card and pointing when it stutters open. 

“Your quarters,” she says, taking her clipboard from her belt. When Kate and Clint attempt to step past her and into the room, though, she holds up her hand. “Wait a second. I think your... what are you earthlings calling it, certificate, is missing from your paperwork.” 

“Our...” Kate exchanges a glance with Clint, who shrugs, as lost as she is. “Our what now?” 

“Marriage certificate,” Zaria elaborates with an eye roll. “I cannot award you a shared quarter unless you're married. In fact, I will not be able to house you on the same ship at all unless you're married. It's regulation. Surely that has been explained to you.” 

It has not, but Kate assumes pointing that out now would be ill-advised. She looks to Clint again, who sets a hand to his lips while Zaria's attention is still on Kate, then clears his throat. 

“Of course,” he says, and Kate wonders how he manages to sound so authoritative sometimes, no bullshit, no argument, when it's not fitting his personality at all. “Someone back home must have forgotten to send you a copy. I will contact them as soon as possible to have that taken care of.” 

Zaria still looks skeptical, but she sighs and closes her clip board, apparently deciding it's not worth the hassle to argue this further. “Well then,” she says with a fake smile. “Enjoy your stay.” 

 

*** 

 

They should leave. SHIELD employs a herd of diplomats. They should go back home and let them sort this out, and Kate is about to say something to that effect when Clint emerges from what passes for the bathroom. He'd paced through their tiny quarter for the past fifteen minutes, up and down in front of the king sized conjugal bed, by far the largest piece of furniture in this room, before he took off in there, and now he's wearing a determined expression that's mixed with a suppressed grin, and Kate is _concerned_. 

“Katherine Elizabeth Bishop,” he says when he's reached her, taking her hand, and that grin is finally exploding across his face. He lowers himself down on one knee and rolls something onto her finger that she only identifies as a repurposed key ring after a genuine moment of shock. “Would you do me the honor of – “

“Don't even finish that question,” Kate interrupts him, looking at the makeshift wedding band that is currently adorning her ring finger. Her partner is an idiot, but then again, she knew that. “This is the worst idea you ever had.”

Clint grins at her. “Are you sure? I've had plenty of bad ideas. I get them on a daily basis.” 

Kate does not dignify that with a reply. She just glares. He gets the message just fine, though, she's sure about _that_ , clears his throat and sobers his expression. 

“Look,” he says, voice now even and professional. Reasonable. “The alternative is to go back to home, have an actual married couple jump through the hoops all over again, and by the time they get here, the ambassador might already be dead.” 

Their mission _is_ time-sensitive, he's right about that – SHIELD received a death threat for an Earth ambassador stationed in the Criontan system a week ago, and they were worried the time frame might be too tight as it is. Kate hates it when he's making sense. 

“Keep your hands to yourself,” she warns him, glancing at the bed. “And if I wake up with morning wood pressed into my back I'll kick you to the floor without a second thought.” 

“Excuse me, I _have_ been married before,” Clint points out, smugly, dangling his amassed live experience like it's a point in his favor. He rises to his feet and mock-salutes, making one of these faces where she's never sure if she wants to kick him or – well, that's really the only option. “I know how this works.” 

“Yeah,” Kate says, wondering whether he means to imply that obedience on his part is the key to a happy marriage, because, in that case, she might have to start retroactively envying Bobbi. That thought doesn't lead anywhere good, though, so instead she glares at him some more, arms akimbo. “And look how _that_ turned out.” 

 

*** 

 

There's little time to contemplate the issue further, or contact anyone at home, before Zaria picks them back up to introduce them to the council. She lifts an eyebrow when she spots the 'ring' on Kate's finger where there previously hadn't been one, but doesn't remark on it, and Kate decides she likes her. They both trot after her in silence, follow her instructions to kneel and bow their heads in front of the huge, massive desk the council members reside behind and parrot the traditional greeting she mumbles for them to repeat.

“Please,” says the council head, marked as such by more elaborate headgear than the other members, and motions for them to stand up. “You are our guests, not our servants.” 

Once they've complied, they're handed touch pads with alien symbols, roughly translated into English; the kind of literal translations that are factually right, taken word by word, but in context deliver a few giggles. Or they would, if Clint and Kate wouldn't be disciplined professionals. Well. Close enough, at least, not to erupt into giddy laughter in front of an alien council. 

The instructions from the council head are basically retreads of the mission briefing they got from SHIELD: observe the upcoming official events as part of the ambassador's entourage, cover him, take out potential assailants. Straightforward, technically, though Kate has learned that assuming a job will be smooth sailing is the first step to screwing it up. 

They are dismissed and led back to their quarters, and as soon as they're there, Clint digs out his Stark tablet and connects it to call home. Kate peeks over his shoulder while Natasha sits down on the other end, smiling at the screen in a way that both looks completely genuine and sends anxious shivers down Kate's spine. 

“What the fuck, Nat,” Clint says by the way of hello, and Natasha dons a sweetly innocent expression. 

“Problems?” she asks, and he frowns at the screen. 

“Either your intel was shit or you're getting back at me for Argentina last year.” His tone leaves no doubt as to what he's assuming; the Black Widow doesn't _do_ false intel. “One way or another, we need a convincingly faked marriage certificate, and we need it fast, or we're off this ship and thereby off this mission.” 

Natasha keeps smiling, unperturbed. “I'll have SHIELD send something up. Anything else?” 

Clint continues to glare at her in silence for a few more moments, then shakes his head. “Nope. Nothing much happened yet. I'll be in touch.” 

He severs the connection and discards the tablet, the looks around, until his gaze lands on the bed and he frowns. Which Kate gets. Their bed. Where they’re supposed to sleep for the next few nights. Both of them. Together. Well, not together, but…

“Second thoughts, Mr. Bishop?” Kate asks him, more to disrupt her own train of thought than anything else, and pokes a finger into his shoulder.

“Never.” He evades and turns to give her his best boyish smirk, although this time around it kinda lacks conviction. But, in the honored tradition of fake-it-till-you-make it that they both subscribe to and as if in demonstration of how very much he _doesn't_ regret coming up with this charade, he stands, strips his shirt off, and walks over to the bed to pull back the sheets. “’After you, Mrs. Barton.” 

“You wish,” Kate counters, and, because this is all theoretical anyway, refrains from pointing out how unlikely she'd be to take _anyone's_ name. Now they're left at stall, though, him waiting for her to get into bed with him, and her, well... not doing that. 

Luckily, Kate’s bedtime routine is a little more elaborate than _undress and climb in_ so she’s got an excuse to postpone. She points to the bathroom and bails to take a quick shower even though they’ve been scrubbed and disinfected when they boarded, changes into a pajama, brushes her teeth, and her relief knows no bounds when she enters the bed to a peacefully snoring Clint roundabout half an hour later.

 

***

 

The first thought to enter Kate’s mind the next morning is an intricate affair about alien hospitality and making the effort to supply them with a quarter so finely honed to their needs and customs; somehow she doubts that aliens usually give much of a fuck about steam showers and thread counts. She contemplates whether it’d be considered rude if she’d ask to see the crew’s quarters, find out how this species spend their nights. Maybe she’s prejudicing; is expecting a lizard life form to rest underneath an artificial sun on a rock racist? Food for thought.

Then she realizes that she’s supposed to have a fake husband in bed with her, pats the mattress next to her own body, and finds it vacated.

She shoves the sleep mask from her eyes and blinks. “Clint?”

A rumble in the bathroom, and then the door opens and he peers through, the entire lower half of his face lathered in shaving cream, one small stripe by his chin already removed.

“Good morning,” he says with a ridiculous little wave. “Wait a sec.”

He disappears again to cause more rumbling, and Kate sits up, the sheets pooling around her middle, a little annoyed that he’s gotten to the bathroom first. She must look awful, her hair all in disarray, and, you know, morning breath –

Kate shakes her head. Nope. She’s got absolutely zero reason to care about either of these things. This is Clint. They’re not actually married. They’re not even _dating_. Whether or not he finds her attractive in the morning makes no difference whatsoever. She takes a deep breath and waits, even resists the urge to finger-comb her hair just a little bit.

Clint emerges with damp hair, freshly shaven, and in nothing but boxer briefs. Somehow, that sight must have gotten lost on her last night, what with her mad dash to the bathroom, but now it hits her full force.

He makes it worse by beaming at her, unbearably fond, and pointing, with a wink, like the insufferable dork he is. “You look cute, Katie.”

So it _might_ be a slight overreaction when she huffs and jumps out of bed, shoving rudely past him to get into the bathroom, finally able to close the door on _those dumb abs_ , but really, it’s his own fault.

 

***

 

Quite often, actual avengering and what people may think it's like don't have a lot in common. In theory, _guarding an ambassador in space_ may sound glorious and exciting and like the plot of a Nicolas Cage movie. In reality, and this particular instance, it means sitting in the alien equivalent of an air duct with a cramp in her thigh she can't get rid of because she _cannot fucking move_ and repeatedly aiming at thin air for so long that the muscles in her shoulders are locking up too. Also, it's cold. It's really goddamn cold. 

“There's a running joke in the tower,” Clint says, conversationally, and his teeth are only chattering a little, “about me hiding in air ducts. You know, bird and all. Tony thinks it's really funny.” 

Kate isn't an official Avenger, and she hardly knows any of the bigger players, but even she knows that Stark considering something hilarious usually means it's anything either immature or plain bad humor. But, Clint likes the guy, and one does not diss a friend's other friends right to their face. 

“Ahh,” she replies, and Clint sidles a little closer, nudges her shoulder. He attempts to retreat almost immediately, respecting her personal space or some such, probably, but Kate reaches out to catch his upper arm. See, he's warm, practically a furnace, and she has every intention to leech as much of that precious body heat as she can manage. 

They sit in silence for a little while, eyes on their charge, hands on their bows. The meeting is scheduled to last two hours, but, and this is something earth politics and space politics have in common, runs much longer. It's also completely uneventful, where their mission is concerned. A few times servants or assistants approaching the ambassador have them both take aim, but they all turn out to be harmless. 

By the time the meeting has finally been declared closed and Zaria pries the entrance to the air duct open to let them back out, Kate is curled into Clint's side without any remnant of shame, and he's got his arm around her and his chin resting on top of her head. She's pretty damn comfortable, given the circumstances, and almost reluctant to move. Clint holds himself perfectly still too, only relieving his hold on her after she pokes him in the side with her elbow. 

Zaria considers them while they extract themselves, head cocked like she's working something out, and as they climb out and walk past her, Kate's pretty sure she actually sees her _smile_. 

 

***

 

Upon blinking awake early on day two, Kate finds herself with an armful of softly snoring Clint Barton. He's clinging to her like a spider monkey, one leg thrown over her middle, his head pillowed on her shoulder, and his breath is coming in soft puffs against her collarbone. 

No one could be more surprised than Kate herself when she realizes her first instinct isn't to shove him off. 

It's rather comfortable, in fact. He's snuggled against her, rather than lying on top of her, so his weight isn't an issue. He isn't drooling or anything gross. Kate turns her head to see his face, and his features are more relaxed than she's ever seen them; there's even the shadow of a dozy smile. Kate shifts slightly – so she can hug him back – and goes back to sleep. 

When she wakes again, some hours later, his side of the bed is once again empty. Clint left a note on the nightstand saying that he's off to a meeting with Zaria, to get their orders for the day, and didn't have the heart to rouse her. She frowns at it, scrunches it in her palm and throws it in the trash on her way to the bathroom. 

 

***

 

Kate has never been a very patient person. Waiting goes against her very nature. The only time she doesn't mind is when she's got an arrow in position and the muscles in her arms are straining with the effort of holding it in place. Every other time? She regresses to the age of roundabout five, pouting and keeping her hands busy and needling whoever has the misfortune of being her company. 

The diplomatic nature of their assignment has them sitting in on the open meetings for the better part the next day, and Kate is bored enough that she almost misses the air duct, bone-chilling cold notwithstanding. Her and Clint are playing a miniature version of arm wrestling using only their thumbs under the table, hands resting on his thigh, and he's about to win for the second time in a row. Which is unfair. His hands are bigger. They're not an even match. She pushes extra hard out of spite, causes her thumb to slip off his, her manicured nail biting into the meet of his palm, making him yelp. 

Zaria glances over to them, and looks like she's plotting bloody murder. 

Robbed of what has been her primary source of entertainment for the past hour, Kate lets her eyes wander across the room, trying rather desperately to find the display of different alien races in the room exciting, with limited success. Her gaze catches on a rat-like alien in the first row of the audience area; more to the point, it catches on the reflection of a metallic device hidden underneath its tunic. She nudges Clint and points. He doesn't need to say anything – the way his brows furrow, boredom replaced by concentrated focus, speaks for itself. He stands, alerting Zaria with a couple of subtle finger signs that they hadn't agreed on previously, but that are basic enough that she understands and nods. They all meet outside, and Zaria radios security. 

Kate almost believes their mission will come to a quiet, fittingly boring end, when she sends another glance back at rat guy and sees him take the device out from under the fabric. She's reaching for her quiver on pure instinct, nocking an arrow and aiming at his hand. Clint catches on the moment she releases, reaching for his own quiver, but it's over before he has a chance to react. Zaria takes off towards the assailant, who has dropped the device, the hand that held it pierced by her arrow. 

She feels Clint's hand curl around her shoulder, gently squeezing. “Well done, Hawkeye.”

 

***

 

They don't hang around for the arrest and the processing; Zaria finds them later to debrief them, going on about political intrigues that Kate doesn't much care for. Something about rival families and rebels and one party or other not liking earth's allegiance. The device wouldn't have killed the earth ambassador alone, either, but taken out quite a number of people in his vicinity. Neither conspiracy nor blood and gore are among Kate's preferred conversation topics, and she only perks up when the topic swerves from politics to celebrations. 

“The council expects your attendance tonight,” Zaria's saying. “Given that you are the guests of honor.” 

Clint shrugs, apparently ready to yield to his fate, while Kate is about protest that she wasn't prepared for formal events and hasn't packed anything appropriate to wear. But Zaria waves at someone in the hallway and another alien comes in, puts a few bags and boxes on the bed, bows, swiftly marches back out, and they're out of excuses. 

As soon as Zaria has left as well, Clint turns to Kate and rubs a hand down his face. “Do you think they'll make us dance? Sophisticated parties like that mean dancing, right? Even in space?” 

“Probably, what with our embassy taking point,” Kate replies. “What are you asking me? You're the one who's been up here in official Avengers capacity before.” 

“We were usually busy shooting stuff,” he says, walking over to their assigned attire. They're all from back home, and he picks up the one that looks unmistakably like men's wear, peeks inside, and frowns. 

And nope, Kate can't stand this any longer. She confiscates the bag from him and sets it aside, takes him by the hands and leads him to the middle of the room. “Did you ever have lessons? Or do I have to start from zero?” 

“Natasha tried to teach me once, but that was years ago. There may have been yelling,” he admits, shuffling his feet. It's kinda adorable. 

Kate sighs and puts his hands in position, one on her hip, the other on her shoulder, positions herself and smiles at him encouragingly. His grip is tentative at first, but then he inhales, and holds on a little tighter. That's not what gets her, though – what throws her is the look on his face, soft, taken, a little reverent. He's never looked at her like that, or if he did, she wasn't paying attention. It makes her head swim. 

She looks away, down to the floor to check the way he's standing, nudges his feet with her own until he's got it right. “Okay. Let's do this. We don't have to turn you into a second Fred Astaire. A few basic steps, and we'll con our way through a song or two.” 

 

*** 

 

The celebration is a bigger affair than Kate expected, although, on second thought, that shouldn't be a surprise. They're amongst diplomats; organizing events on the fly is part of their chosen confession. Thankfully, the food isn't anything more involved then the dried rations she got used to over the past few days – freshly cooked alien cuisine isn't something she's keen to experiment with, her stomach already couldn't handle real Chinese food that one time her mother took her to Shanghai. 

There are speeches, and dancing, and more speeches. All in all, it rather reminds Kate of the company functions her father sometimes makes her attend, and she approaches the proceedings with the same attitude, employs the same trained smile and polite chitchat. Clint mostly follows her lead and keeps quiet, talking only when he's asked and even then in little more than clipped sentences. She almost feels bad for him, at least until she remembers that staying here despite being handed a convenient excuse to leave was _his idea_. And, in is defense, he keeps the muttered complaints about the suit and the tie and the boring small talk to minimum. 

Near the end of the evening, after food and a few more speeches, the council head rises and addresses the room, causing everyone else to lapse into respectful silence. He gestures towards Clint and Kate, motions for them to stand up, and with everyone's heads turning in their direction there is no way they can refuse. 

“Our victorious guests,” he starts, and launches into a speech of his own. Kate hardly understands half of it; he does deliver the majority of it in English, but there was wine, his pronunciation is off and he throws in several alien phrases that Kate has no hope of translating. That's why, when he finishes, cup held up high in their direction and looking expectant, Kate has absolutely no idea what's supposed to happen next. 

“They're waiting for a kiss,” Zaria explains, under her breath so only the two of them can hear, her tone vaguely amused. “It was my ancestor’s custom when a pair of warriors stood victorious over an enemy, and my people love their traditions.” 

The whole room is looking to them, now, cheers rising all around. Kate herself looks up to Clint, waiting for a hint as to what they're going to do – he's the one who got them into this mess – but her breath stutters when she sees that expression on his face again, now with an edge that's determined and nervous at once. 

“It's customary,” Clint says, stroking a thumb across her jaw, eyes pinned to hers. “It's expected.” 

He lowers his head, and she goes on tiptoes to meet him pretty much on autopilot, captivated by the way he's staring at her. The thought that his lips are softer than she expected crosses her mind and then her eyes fall closed and they're kissing, chaste at first, pretending. Kate won't be sure, later, who deepened it, who was the first that brought in some tongue, but suddenly she's snaking her arms around his neck to get herself closer and his hand is in her hair and they're _kissing_ , for real, the kind that makes the rest of the world blur a little around the edges. The alien delegation that's now outright clapping at them has become mere backdrop, unimportant and distant. Clint's hands wander down her back, a teasing touch with his fingertips only, barely felt through fabric but still electrifying, and then he's gripping her hips, lifting her up a bit, drawing her in even more. 

The council head's exaggerated, too-loud cough is what breaks the spell, having them part and step back from one another. They sit and listen to the next speech, but every time Kate looks up, which is often, she finds Clint's gaze already settled on her. His expression is hard to read, fondness and uncertainty and something else, something new, something that makes Kate's heart beat a little faster. 

 

***

 

“So,” Clint says as soon as they're back in their quarters, hooking a finger into his tie to yank it loose. He shouldn't do that. Kate's seen the packaging. The dumb thing was expensive. 

“So,” Kate echoes, and shakes her head a little. She may or may not be staring at his lips. She knows what they look like kiss-swollen and red and slick, and she still isn't quite certain what to do with that. Which is either impressive or pathetic, seeing how she's spent the better part of the last hour starring at them and really should have it all figured out by now. 

He flops down on their bed and toes off his shoes. His mouth opens and closes, but he doesn't seem to be able to decide on what to say next. 

This is stupid. 

Kate sits down next to him and stops him from bending down to pull off his socks with a hand on his forearm. He stills and looks up, and she studies him, his face, the face she knows so well. The _man_ she knows so well, because they're polar opposites sometimes but they're also the same in every way that matters. They could take on the world together. There's no one she trusts to have her back like she does Clint. 

She lifts a hand to stroke it down his face, mirroring the way he touched her earlier; considers to tease him about being presumptuous when he closes his eyes, but finds she doesn't want to _talk_. Instead, she shifts and straddles him, pushing him down with a hand on his chest, and sets about continuing where they left off. 

 

***

 

After, when they're lying side by side underneath the covers, fingers tangled together, Clint turns to her, brows furrowed in thought. “This might be a terrible idea. You know that I have a lot of these, and I tend to screw –“ 

Kate reaches out and smooths the worry lines out with her fingers. “Then lets say it was my idea, not yours.” 

He opens his mouth to protest, but she leans over to kiss all his doubts away. 

 

***

 

Back home, a few days later, Clint beckons her over as he’s sitting on the couch, Stark tablet in hand. Kate sits down next to him and raises a questioning eyebrow, and he points at the connection building on the screen. He’s calling Natasha. That still doesn’t explain why he wants her around for the call, but Kate nevertheless settles against his side and waits for Natasha to answer.

When she does, Kate’s presence for the call doesn’t get questioned. Natasha glances from one side of the screen to another, from him to her, and smiles knowingly.

“Mission’s been a success,” Clint says, and Kate looks at him sidelong. They handed their reports in already. That’s not news, and definitely not worth calling her for. Clint puts his hand on Kate’s knee and squeezes lightly, a wordless and out-of-frame sign to wait and see.

“That’s on file,” Natasha says, and Kate would assume she’d had the same train of thought, if there wasn’t something else in her expression. There’s a joke being shared here that Kate’s not in on, and it _bothers_ her.

Clint inches a little closer to Kate and heaves an exaggerated, put-upon sigh. “Not what I’m talking about, Nat, and you know it. The other mission.”

And then Kate catches on. The Black Widow really _doesn’t_ get her intel wrong or makes a filing error. The whole marriage misunderstanding wasn’t a misunderstanding at all. She glances from Clint to the screen and very much tries not to look taken aback. It’s probably not all that convincing.

Natasha honest to god _smirks_. She’s definitely been friends with Clint for far too long; he’s rubbing off on her. “You’re welcome.”


End file.
